


Quarantine Hotel

by disfictional



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Mary Returns, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Quarantine, Words Unsaid, mary is alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disfictional/pseuds/disfictional
Summary: At the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, John returns to England from his year in Serbia working with Doctors Without Borders. During his fourteen day quarantine in a government-sanctioned hotel, John discovers he may not be as isolated as he thinks.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection





	1. Mask Off, Please

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is the first of three. It's also the one with the most plot. This fic will earn its E rating in chapter 2.

“Mask off, please.” 

Sheltered behind a plexiglass barrier, the customs agent at Heathrow airport examines John’s passport. John pulls down his medical mask for the first time since he arrived at the Nikola Tesla airport in Belgrade, Serbia for his flight home that morning. He’s exhausted, and must look as such, going by the agent’s careful squint between John and his passport photo from nearly ten years ago. 

John remembers the day he took the photo: he hadn’t been ready for the flash to go off, so there’s an odd expression of surprise and a goofy half-smile on his younger face. Upon seeing it, Sherlock had deduced as much, snickering at the photo John had unsuccessfully tried to hide from him. They had a good-natured laugh about it. That night, John had gone on a date with Sarah only to return to an extra copy of the photo missing. He never brought it up. 

Now, with beads of sweat pooled around his lips from the heat of the mask, he must look like an old, wet sock compared to the charming awkwardness of the John Watson on his passport. 

A year ago, John left for Serbia as a doctor with Medicins Sans Frontieres. Heathrow airport had looked a lot different, then. Restaurants in the terminals were open; people were embracing their loved ones; there were no masks or face shields in sight. But a year ago, COVID-19 hadn’t even been conceived of. 

Having come to the end of his year-long contract abroad, he is returning to England. Life will be drastically different. Even if there hadn’t been a global pandemic, John knows that life after Serbia will not- could not- be the same. He isn’t living at 221B anymore, for one. He hasn’t the faintest idea where he’ll stay permanently, but he has a fourteen day government-mandated quarantine at the Crowne Plaza London-Heathrow hotel to sort out temporary arrangements. 

The customs agent lets him through with a nod, and as he walks through the opened gate, officially back in London, he feels a pang in his stomach at the jarring reality of moving back to London without Rosie. This isn’t the celebratory homecoming he had wishfully imagined on cold nights in Subotica. John swallows, suppressing the fantastical image of Sherlock smiling at the arrivals gate, Rosie in his arms, welcoming him back to England in an embrace. 

No, Rosie is gone, he sternly reminds himself. It will never happen. He can’t see her ever again. 

And Sherlock wouldn’t be smiling. 

Instead, John is greeted by a lost suitcase, which has been accidentally routed to Greece. The airport will deliver it to his quarantine room as soon as it arrives, the staff member at baggage claim calmly assures. John groans internally. That suitcase holds his clothing, some of his toiletries, and his laptop. He does his best to appear satisfied with this solution, but judging by the grimace on the woman’s face, he’s not very convincing. John has never been particularly good at hiding his discontent. 

The hotel room is basic, but he hadn’t expected anything special. It has wifi, a fridge, a shower, and a soft bed, and that’s good enough for him. He takes a quick shower, relishing in the comfort of hot water on his skin. Clean and warm, he changes into lounge pants and a t-shirt he thankfully packed in his carry-on, and climbs into bed with a sigh. After a year of sleeping on a rather stiff mattress in his flat in Subotica, the downy sheets feel heavenly. 

John’s mobile buzzes on the nightstand, and his brow furrows. He doesn’t get a lot of unprompted texts these days. A small hope that Sherlock knows he is back in London blooms in his chest before he can stop it, and his fingers itch for the phone. 

Seeing the screen, the glimmer of hope instantly dulls. A lone text from his phone company welcoming him back to the UK taunts him. 

He clutches the bridge of his nose in between his fingers. This is one of the reasons he left in the first place: he can’t be in London without Sherlock. And all he has ever done to Sherlock is hurt him. This is the fundamental truth.

John thought that a year apart would be enough to separate him, help him to process his feelings. And it had, a bit. He had thrown himself into his work near the Hungarian-Serbian border. As far as distractions go, it was successful. His patients had mostly been refugees. In the last year, he’d treated far too many tear gas and pepper spray injuries, along with dog bites, and violence-related wounds. John is good, excellent, even, at that kind of thing. It was fulfilling work, but unlike his time in Afghanistan, he had longed for home, for a sense of stability. He’s getting too old to run away from his problems. 

And now that he’s here, in this hotel room alone, feeling an ache not dissimilar to the loneliness he felt after Afghanistan, staring at hypnotically boring beige wallpaper, John doesn’t want to run away anymore. 

He wants to text Sherlock. He’s been back in the country all of an hour and he can’t stop thinking about the man. Typical. 

He knows he shouldn’t. It would derail all the progress he’s made. But god, does he want to. 

He takes a breath, and starts typing. 

_Hey, Sherlock, I_

_Hi. It’s me_

_Hi_

_Hey, it’s John. Been awhile_

_What’s up?_

Completely idiotic. It’s all wrong. He sighs, placing his mobile down on the nightstand, texts unsent. He runs a hand through his hair, and if there was ever a doubt that he had gone completely grey, there is none now, after Serbia. 

After Mary, and Rosie. 

He shudders. Images of that night, of Sherlock’s vacant eyes, Rosie’s cherry pajamas, still haunt him. He breathes in and out slowly, centering himself in an exercise his therapist encourages him to do when he feels out of his depth. After a year of skype-therapy, he had been excited to return to in-person visits, but COVID has ruined that possibility, too, at least for the near future. He breathes. The memory fades to a low hum, which he tries to drown out with the news, a cycle of coronavirus-related stories, Boris Johnson’s latest, and a global Black Lives Matter response. Unprecedented times, the reporter repeats. 

He sends a text to Harry, letting her know of his return. She calls him a minute later. 

“Johnny!” she exclaims, her familiar rasp a welcome sound, despite his distaste for the childish nickname. “Back in London, then?” 

John smiles in spite of himself. “Yeah, I’m at a hotel quarantining for 14 days first. I was exposed to some confirmed cases at my hospital in Serbia.” 

“You must be bored to tears.” 

John stands, pulling back the curtain to reveal a rather nice view of the nightscape of London. Better than beige wallpaper, at any rate. “Not yet. I only just arrived. For now, it’s actually nice to have some peace. After this year, fourteen days off should be a dream. I imagine I’ll be going a bit mad in a few days, though. The only time I’m supposed to open my door is at meals, to collect them.” 

Harry breathes a disbelieving puff into the phone. “Jesus. That sounds rough.”

“Eh, it’s alright. I’ve been through worse.” 

“I suppose you have, yeah.” There’s a heavy pause on Harry’s end. “John…”

John goes back to sit on the bed, slumping against the headboard. “I’m fine, Harry.” 

“Well...alright.” Uncertainty drips from her voice. “You know I worry about you. Big sis and all.” 

“I appreciate it.” He doesn’t, really. He hates people worrying about him. And Harry has enough problems on her own. “How are you? How’s the new flat?” 

He can hear the smile cross her face. “It’s great, Johnny. Truly. I didn’t...I didn’t think I’d get this again, after Clara. I’m in such a better place. Imani has been everything I needed this year. I can’t wait for you to meet her.” 

Imani, Harry’s new girlfriend. The one she’s besotted with. Right. “I’m happy for you.” He is, and if Imani could get Harry off the drink, she’s a right miracle worker. But he can’t quite keep the edge of bitterness out of his voice. The two of them had always seemed to operate on opposite timelines; when his life was taking a downward turn, Harry’s went upward, and vice versa. 

Harry’s voice quiets. “You could talk to him, John.” 

Anger simmers in his fingers, and he has to fight the urge to snap at her. Why does _everything_ have to be about Sherlock? He swallows, not wanting to turn this into an argument. “I said I’m fine.” John sniffs. “I’m just glad you’re happy.” 

She can’t let it go. “You lost a child. I think you deserve some happiness, too.” 

John grits his teeth. He knows she means well, but this is not what he needs to hear after a long day of travel, holed up in a hotel room. If he keeps up this conversation, it’s going to get ugly. “I’ve got to go. Talk later.” 

“John! Wait. I’m sorry, it’s not my place. I just wanted to say, welcome home.” 

“Thanks. Talk later.” He hangs up before she has the chance to object. 

His sister is bloody impossible, sometimes. 

_You lost a child._

The very idea of it is so wrong, so unbelievably unacceptable, after a year, he still has trouble comprehending his own reprehensible reality. 

“Welcome home,” Harry had said. He’s not sure what home looks like anymore. He contemplates this, staring mindlessly at the news for a while longer before succumbing to a fitful sleep. 

**15 Months Earlier (January 2019)**

“I threw small stones into it, over and over. Watching the way the water rippled. Out and away, out and away,” Sherlock’s baritone echoes through the flat as he reads aloud to a sleepy Rosie, who is comfortably nestled in his lap wearing her favorite cherry-covered pajamas. John makes tea in the kitchen, listening indulgently to the sweet sounds of domesticity in the sitting room. 

“Like each kindness- done and not done. Like every girl somewhere- holding a small gift out to someone, and that someone turning away from it,” Sherlock reads, and John walks out with tea for both of them, placing Sherlock’s gently on the coffee table in front of him. He looks up fondly at the offering. Rosie impatiently turns the page for him, not standing for this brief pause. Always feisty, that one. 

Sherlock chuckles and continues. “I watched the water ripple as the sun set through the maples, and the chance of a kindness with Maya became more and more forever gone.” 

Rosie closes the book, and John reads the title: _Each Kindness_ by Jacqueline Woodson. “The end!” Rosie shouts, as is her ritual when Sherlock reads to her before bed. 

John settles himself into his chair in front of the lit fire, and turns to Sherlock. “That sounds a bit depressing for a children’s book.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him and turns to Rosie. “Did you think this was a sad book, Watson?” 

She makes an exaggerated sad face and nods her head. “Yes.” 

“Why was it sad?” Sherlock asks, sounding genuinely curious. 

“She didn’t give her kindness.” The response sounds incredibly cute coming from Rosie’s four-year-old mouth. She waves her small hands in a gesture that says _obviously!_ and John can’t help but see Sherlock’s influence in it. John sips his tea.

Sherlock hums in agreement. “Very good. My clever girl.” He kisses her curls, and John’s heartbeat thrums a bit louder. 

“Do you give kindness?” Rosie asks Sherlock innocently. 

Sherlock freezes, thinking. He always takes Rosie’s questions so seriously. John smiles, finding it hopelessly endearing. “Yes, I do. But I’m not sure I always give my kindness in the right way.” 

He gives John a meaningful look. John meets his gaze for a moment, but looks away quickly and clears his throat. Sherlock’s been so _open_ like that recently, and it’s been testing John’s resolve not to throw caution to the wind, back Sherlock up against a wall, and- no. He’s accepted that Sherlock is his (platonic? no. non-romantic? asexual?) life partner and that has to be good enough for him. It _is_ good enough for him. He’s happy. John hadn’t thought they would ever get here, after everything. John’s desire for _more_ is frivolous. 

“Daddy, do you give kindness?” Rosie asks, and for a moment, John is stunned. He should’ve been expecting this question, but only the moments he’s been particularly _un_ kind seem to come to mind. 

Sherlock must see this in John’s expression, and he interjects. “Of course Daddy gives kindness. He just made me this tea.” Sherlock takes a sip and _mmm_ s, as if proving the quality of the tea makes it a more gracious act.

John stands, stretching. “I think it’s this clever girl’s time for bed.” 

When Rosie falls asleep after John’s nightly backrub, John pads downstairs to the kitchen to pour himself two fingers of whiskey. He offers some to Sherlock, who agrees. 

The two of them settle into their respective chairs in front of the fire. The heat of the whiskey burns as it goes down John’s throat, and it makes him feel deliciously warm and relaxed. He undoes a couple of buttons on his shirt and untucks it from his jeans, needing to loosen up. He glances at Sherlock, noticing that the man’s gaze is transfixed on John’s newly revealed skin. John licks his lips. Sherlock looks away. It’s a dance John knows well. 

“Why did you choose that book tonight? I’ve never heard it before.” 

Sherlock spins the whiskey in his glass thoughtfully. “I’d think you of all people would agree it’s important to teach her about the value of being kind to others, especially to those who are different from herself.”

“That wasn’t the typical butterflies and rainbows, ‘be kind to everyone’ book though, was it? It had a sad ending.” 

Sherlock narrows his eyes and concentrates on John, taking his eyes from his whiskey. “I think it is also valuable to teach her that often, we do not realize we’ve hurt another person until it’s too late.” 

John swallows. This conversation is inching dangerously close to territory they don’t discuss. He should stop now and go up to bed before he takes it there, but the coziness of this chair and the delightful heaviness in his bones from the whiskey are making that seem increasingly unlikely. He regards Sherlock, sunken into his chair, all long limbs and cheekbones. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, making the often outwardly mechanical man look more human, the red in his cheeks a reminder that hot blood runs through him. His hair has a soft glow from the firelight, and John has a sudden need to run his hands through it. He takes a sip of whiskey instead. “It’s not too late, Sherlock,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper. 

For a moment, Sherlock opens his mouth as if to say something, and John perks up, sensing the importance of whatever will come next. But the moment passes, Sherlock closes his eyes, and John can only wonder what he’s thinking about. Which hurt he realized too late they would not come back from. The fall. The marriage. The deaths. The drugs. The morgue. 

When Sherlock opens his eyes, his expression is carefully impassive. “Would you like to sleep in mine tonight,” he voices the question like a statement, already knowing John’s answer. They sleep together, just sleep, on occasion. Sherlock always knows when John needs it. John’s not sure that Sherlock even enjoys it, being the type to need his personal space, but John suspects he gives this to him as a sort of compromise- as a kindness. 

“Yes,” John breathes, unable to keep the want out of his voice. It may be a trick of the whiskey, but he swears he sees Sherlock’s eyes darken. 

“Come on, then.” 

John quietly changes into his pajamas as Rosie sleeps, careful not to wake her. Downstairs, he brushes his teeth and uses the loo before padding into Sherlock’s room. He’s already under the covers, curls splayed out on the pillow beneath him, arm drawn up over his head. He looks like a renaissance painting. 

The whiskey has loosened his tongue, and John decides to say as much. “If I were a painter, I’d paint you right now.” 

Sherlock’s eyes analyze John’s figure closely as he climbs into bed. He sits up just enough so his cheek is resting on his hand. “John, I know you’re a romantic, but that was the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.” 

John pretends to be scandalized. “Not a pickup line, you cock. I’m already getting into bed with you. And not even to get laid.” He settles himself under the covers, turning to face Sherlock. He meant it as a joke, but Sherlock seems to be digesting this statement with concern. “Hey,” he says, “it’s alright. I know you don’t do that. It’s all fine, remember.” John smiles awkwardly at the memory of their first dinner at Angelo’s. Jesus, that was nine years ago. And he wants to jump Sherlock’s bones now every bit as much as he did that night. 

Sherlock smiles faintly, but still looks troubled. In lieu of responding, he shuts off the lights and moves just an inch closer to John, lying on his side to face him. “Goodnight, John.” It’s soft, and tender, and John can read the unsaid words within. 

John leans over to lightly grasp Sherlock’s forearm in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “Goodnight, Sherlock. Love you.” He leans in for a quick, chaste kiss, as is their ritual before bed. John desperately wants to lean into the kiss, open Sherlock’s mouth, push him into the mattress, touch him everywhere, but he can’t. They don’t. And it’s okay. Instead, he slumps onto his back. The whiskey is pulling on his eyelids, willing him to sleep. The warmth of Sherlock’s presence helps, too. And if he only imagines Sherlock stroking his long fingers through John’s hair as he falls asleep, he doesn’t mind. This is enough. 

A few hours later, John wakes with a start, feeling deeply unsettled, unsure as to why. Sherlock is lying next to him, pale and unmoving, one arm hanging off the bed, as if he had been reaching for something. Paranoid, John lifts two fingers to Sherlock’s neck, taking his pulse. It’s worryingly low; it’s not like Sherlock to sleep so deeply. “Sherlock, wake up.” John shakes him a bit. He doesn’t move. John leans over him to turn on the light. Still no response. “Sherlock, come on. Sherlock.” Increasingly worried, John begins examining him, lifting his eyelids to a vacant stare, listening to his heartbeat against his chest, when John sees it: a small, barely perceptible mark of a needle in his neck. 

Someone was here. He glances to the bedroom door, and realizes he was too focused on Sherlock to notice the most obvious detail: it’s open, and the lights are on in the sitting room. A rush of adrenaline shoots through him. _Rosie._

John bounds out of bed, reaching into Sherlock’s drawer where John keeps his sig (they made the decision not to keep it anywhere Rosie might find it), only to find...nothing. It’s gone. “Sherlock, wake UP, dammit!” he says more to himself than Sherlock. He’s panicking now. _Who was here? How did they know where he kept his gun?_

John tries one last time to shake Sherlock awake, even dumping the glass of water on his nightstand onto Sherlock’s face. Nothing. He’s completely knocked out. 

He needs to check on Rosie. As quietly as he can manage, he hurries into the sitting room. What he sees there abruptly stops him, and nearly brings him to his knees. A string of emotions- disbelief, confusion, ire, grief- wraps itself around him, suffocating him. He opens his mouth to speak several times before actually producing sound. 

“M..Mary?”

She looks strikingly different from how John knew her, now with cropped ginger hair, freckles, and green eyes (colored contacts?), but it’s undeniably her. Mary’s here, in 221B, not dead, and she’s sitting on the couch, holding his daughter in one arm, and a gun pointed directly at him, in another. 

“John,” she says, like a greeting when he’s just come home from work a bit late. He tenses, wanting to reach for Rosie, but he knows it would be a fatal move. She’s slumped on Mary’s shoulder, seemingly asleep, but John suspects Mary’s used some of the same drug she gave Sherlock to keep her sedated. “I’ve been waiting awhile for you to wake. But I suppose drinking was always how you got a good night’s sleep.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Sherlock just needs a high dosage. The two of you are well-suited. But not so well-suited to be the parents of my child.” She holds Rosie tighter, who slumps further against Mary’s shoulder. 

John tries desperately to keep his tone calm. “How are you here.”

“Ooh, so Sherlock never told you?” Mary smiles like it’s Christmas morning. “I should’ve known. Not telling you stuff is kind of his M.O. I would’ve thought things had changed a bit, with the nature of your arrangement. But they do say, old habits die hard.” She glances briefly toward Sherlock’s bedroom, and back again. “You must like the sex, though. I bet he’s crazy in bed. I know how you always liked it a little rough.” Her voice drips with condescension, and John reels with embarrassment, exposure, regret. 

He steadies himself. She knows what she’s doing. “You faked your death.” John’s rather immune to the shock of it, now, but this doesn’t dull the betrayal. 

“I’m not here to talk about that,” she says icily, her head turning to the side in a way that looks almost reptilian. 

John has a guess as to what she’s here to do, but he needs to hear her say it. “What are you here to talk about, then.” 

“I’m here for her.” She rubs Rosie’s back in what should be a soothing gesture, but to John, it only looks possessive. 

He can’t let her do this. He takes a step forward, as if to lunge for Rosie, but Mary stands and puts the gun to his head. 

“You move closer and I kill you, John Watson. Sit. Down.” 

He huffs, but he does as he’s told, moving to sit in his chair. He knows what she’s capable of. And with the very thing he cares about most in this world in her arms, he’s at her mercy. 

“Please don’t do this, Mary. I love her more than anything,” he pleads. 

Mary scowls. “More than you love him?” She briefly motions the gun toward Sherlock’s bedroom. 

John opens his mouth to say _yes_ , but he can’t force the sound out. Sherlock and Rosie are his family. They’re the singular item that occupies his heart. He can’t truly say he loves one more than the other. 

Mary instantly sees the hesitation and sighs, a hint of nostalgia creeping into her voice. “Oh, John. It’s so special to be loved by you. Rosie was lucky to have it for four years.” 

“She’ll have it forever,” he says, desperation seeping from the words. 

Mary looks sympathetic, for a moment. “You thought that about me, once.” 

“Don’t. Don’t do this,” he whispers. “Please.” 

Mary shakes her head. “I have to. She’s the only thing I have left.” Her voice threatens to shake, but the gun doesn’t waver. “I’m taking Rosie with me. If there’s even a slight hint, a whisper in the wind,that you, or Sherlock, or Mycroft are looking for us, I _will_ kill Sherlock, and I’ll make you watch. You know I will.” 

A strangled sob threatens to escape his throat. His eyes inadvertently shift toward the bedroom where Sherlock lies, dead to the world, and John weakly accepts there’s nothing he can do. Mary has defeated him. 

“I’ll give her the best life I can, John. I promise that.” She sounds genuine enough, but John can’t trust her. He’s never been able to, clearly. She checks her watch, possibly waiting for a response from John. None comes. “Goodbye, John.” If he detects a hint of sadness in it, he doesn’t register it. He’s so in shock, he can’t even bring himself to say goodbye to Rosie. Even as Mary leaves, the gun stays aimed on him. 

When Mary finally disappears from view, down the stairs with half of his heart, he crumbles. He sits, motionless, numb, and completely alone, for what feels like hours. 

When Sherlock finally wakes a good eighteen hours later, he wanders into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, disoriented. John is on the sofa, staring straight ahead. There are three suitcases packed beside him. 

“Nice of you to join the waking world,” John scoffs bitterly. 

Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion. After taking a sip of water, he strides into the sitting room to confront John. His voice sounds ragged and unused. “John. Wh- what happened?” 

John laughs mirthlessly, hating Sherlock for having missed the encounter. “ _Mary_ paid us a visit.” 

Sherlock blinks, and brings a hand over his mouth, seeming to remember something. “Oh, god,” he sounds pained. He looks to the suitcases, then up to John’s room. “She came for Rosie.” 

The name stings, already establishing itself as an unfillable hole in John’s being. “Tell me something, Sherlock. Why…” his composure is melting away. Sherlock must sense this, because he takes a careful step backward, bracing himself. “Why the FUCK do you NEVER. TELL ME. ANYTHING!” John stands, careening toward Sherlock. He grabs him by the lapels of his dressing gown. Sherlock lets him. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. John has a nagging notion at the back of his mind that Sherlock may be equally as crushed at the loss of Rosie, but he ignores it. He’s livid. “John,” his name is a sad and desperate plea. “I didn’t- I never- It was-...” Sherlock swallows. “I never intended to hurt you. It was...complicated circumstances.” 

John lets go of Sherlock’s dressing gown, pushing Sherlock as he turns away. What a weak excuse. John lowers his voice. “It always is with you. It’s been YEARS, Sherlock.” His voice breaks. “How. How could you keep this from me.” 

Sherlock follows him, reaching out for John’s shoulder. He forcefully shrugs him off. “I love you,” he whispers, as if the words have any meaning now that Rosie’s gone. 

John turns to face Sherlock, his expression hard. But he can’t bring himself to look Sherlock in the eyes; there’s too much raw emotion there. “For being a genius, you’re a right idiot. You knew what happened last time you kept something like this from me. And the consequences this time…” he breathes, knowing that if he dwells on Rosie, he’ll break down, “are unforgivable.” 

And with that, he wordlessly grabs his suitcases and heads for the door. But before he leaves, he remembers one key detail of Mary’s abduction. “Don’t you dare go looking for her. And tell Mycroft not to interfere. Swear it, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looks confused for a moment, but he must make the leap. “I swear, John.” He sounds broken, and hurt, and the pure sadness of it is almost enough to convince John to turn back. But he doesn’t, and when he walks out of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock doesn’t try to stop him. 

***

It’s day seven of John’s quarantine at the Crowne Plaza, and predictably, he’s going a bit mad. He’s watched more cable tv in the last week than he has in the last two years. He’s written several long entries in his journal (his therapist would be proud). He’s done hundreds of push-ups. He’s re-read his favorite blog entries, indulging in a bout of nostalgia (and had a depressing wank afterwards). 

But he hasn’t texted Sherlock. And he’s still not sure if that’s an accomplishment or a pity. 

A heavy knock on the door interrupts his chain of thought. John checks the time: 14:30, so not a designated meal time. Then he remembers- his lost luggage. He straightens himself up a bit, thinking this could be the first time he’s interacted with another human in seven days. He probably smells, so he puts on a fresh coat of deodorant and heads for the door. 

Sure enough, his suitcase, sturdy, tan, and unassuming, is sitting outside his door. The staff member who delivered it is already halfway down the hallway, but John calls out to him. “Thank you!” 

He turns, quite an attractive and obviously gay young man wearing a mask with the hotel’s logo on it. “You’re welcome, Dr. Watson,” he calls, a bit flirtatiously.

John wonders if he should try to ask for his number, but by the time he looks up, the man is already out of sight. John has quarantine goggles on, and seven days of total isolation can make anyone look like a good shag. He rolls the suitcase inside, and is just about to close the door, when a familiar voice stops him. “John!” 

He freezes. He would recognize the way that particular voice says his name anywhere. Unable to stop himself, he risks a glance down the hall, telling himself he’s simply confirming that he’s starting to hear voices. But, against all odds, a few doors down stands a tall, familiar detective looking almost unrecognizable in glasses, a cozy jumper, and a pair of tracky-bottoms. 

John gasps. “Sherlock.” 

It’s only fitting that the man he’s been trying so hard to avoid has been ten metres away this whole time. 

The man in question sneakily glances both ways up and down the hallway before scurrying up to John’s door, and slipping inside. John doesn’t have the strength to keep him out.

Sherlock looks positively gleeful. “John! I can’t believe our luck.” 

Well, John thinks, he’s not sure if he’d call it “luck” so much as a startling coincidence. As if the last fifteen months of zero contact hadn’t existed, Sherlock toes off his shoes and plops onto John’s bed, leaning into John’s pillows. He starts sniffing one of them, and sighs contentedly.

John shakes his head in disbelief, wondering if he’s actually started having quarantine hallucinations. “What the _hell_ are you doing, Sherlock? We’re not supposed to interact with one another, let alone be in each other’s rooms. Kind of defeats the point of all this.” 

Sherlock waves him off, burrowing himself in John’s bed. “Missed your smell.” 

John huffs, frustrated, annoyed, and, if he’s being honest with himself, a little aroused at that sentiment coming from Sherlock’s mouth as he’s splayed out on John’s bedsheets, nestled in his pillows. He certainly hadn’t expected their reunion to be like _this._

And suddenly, it dawns on him. The red eyes, the casual air of relaxation about him, his earthy smell, the sniffing. John should’ve known on sight. “You’re high.” 

Sherlock perks up at this. “Clever boy,” he smiles goofily. “But don’t go making conclusions. It’s none of the hard stuff. I gave that up. I’m high on what you might call skunk. Marijuana. The devil’s lettuce, if you will.” 

John massages his temples trying to decide what to do next. 

“Come lay with me, John. I’ve missed you. You missed me, too. It’s obvious.” Sherlock waves a hand in John’s direction, a vaguely enticing gesture. John hesitates, but the invitation is frustratingly alluring, and maybe if he cooperates with Sherlock, they’ll actually be able to make some progress. Because, even though he’s spent fifteen months trying to deny it, Sherlock is right: John misses him, too. 

Resigned, John climbs into bed. He lays on his back, hands folded on his stomach, pointedly looking up at the ceiling. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock reaches out to play with John’s hair. John lets him, chalking it up to the high. Another person hasn’t touched him comfortingly like this since...well, since Sherlock. John tries hard not to seem like he’s enjoying it as much as he’s just letting it happen. “Here as in your room, or here as in this quarantine hotel?” Sherlock asks, slow and relaxed. 

“In quarantine.” Sherlock is rubbing circles on John’s scalp now, and John closes his eyes. 

“Couldn’t risk infecting Mrs. Hudson. She’s part of the vulnerable population.” 

John has always found Sherlock’s soft spot for Mrs. Hudson to be heart-tuggingly sweet. “What day is it for you?” 

“Only day four. I’m returning from Taiwan, so that warrants a mandated quarantine in the UK, despite Taiwan’s excellent handling of the pandemic. Mycroft sent me for some political work to look into potential crime-ring-associated voter fraud from the 2020 presidential election. Not my usual line of work, but it was interesting, even if the whole case turned out to be nothing. I’d say it was a waste, but I quite enjoyed Taipei. I drank far too much bubble tea, as undignified as it sounds.” 

John hums, half-listening as the pleasure of Sherlock’s head massage seeps through his entire body. 

“How was Serbia?” Sherlock asks when John starts to drift into a kip. He must be trying to keep him awake, then. John is reminded of the last time he fell asleep with Sherlock’s fingers in his hair, and understands why he is hesitant to let that happen again. 

John opens his eyes, surprised Sherlock would ask at all, considering he was the main reason John left. “It was…good to get away. From everything.” He winces. He sounds like an arsehole. Sherlock clearly hears the _From you_ John means.

Sherlock’s fingers pause their ministrations. “Oh. Of course.” 

John finally turns to face him. “I just mean, my whole life changed. It was good to get away to...process that.” 

Sherlock scans his face, reading details in his deepening wrinkles. He turns serious. “I’m sorry, John. I never said.” 

The apology punches him in the chest, bringing back a swell of emotion he had the night he lost Rosie. He sits up abruptly, breathing hard. They shouldn’t be doing this. Sherlock can’t- shouldn’t be here, now, in his bed, making it seem like nothing has changed. He’s the reason Rosie isn’t in his life anymore; John had said it that night- that consequence was unforgivable. Anger starts to rise in him. “Yeah, you didn’t say a lot of things.” 

Sherlock sits up, too, sensing the shift in John’s mood. He looks thin, John realizes, his jumper hanging off of him, and John wonders if he was lying about giving up hard drugs. “You should go,” he says, more of an order than a suggestion.

Sherlock wordlessly scrambles off the bed and slips into his shoes, making a beeline for the door. John doesn’t try to stop him. 


	2. Words Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes on day eight of quarantine to the smell of Sherlock invading his nostrils. Seven full days without seeing a single other person, he’s horny as hell, and somehow Sherlock manages to find his way into John’s psyche, his room, and his bed.

John wakes on day 8 of quarantine to the smell of _Sherlock_ invading his nostrils. Seven full days without seeing a single other person, he’s horny as hell, and somehow Sherlock manages to find his way into John’s psyche, his room, and his bed. Sherlock was all over his pillows yesterday, and just the thought is intoxicating. His morning wood agrees. He has to bite his lip in concentration, willing himself to get out of bed to brush his _teeth_ (most decidedly not his cock). While he’s in the loo, an envelope slips under his door. The outside reads _John_ in too familiar, slanted handwriting. The _nerve_ he has! In protest, John lets it sit on the room desk, unopened for hours, trying to distract himself with a book. 

But by dinner delivery, fish and chips, John’s resolve is weakened, and he’s desperately bored. 

John opens the envelope to reveal a list of sorts. John opens a cheap beer from the minifridge and settles onto the bed to read it. 

_John,_

_Yesterday, you claimed that I “didn’t say a lot of things.” I admit that this troubled me, because there are indeed things I have neglected to say to you in the years since I returned, things that you may deem important in assessing your role in our relationship moving forward._

_(In case it is unclear, I would like to rekindle our association, if you are amenable.)_

_You’re a smart man, and you may have already deduced some of these. Regardless, here is a list of what I think are the most significant instances in which I left words unsaid. (listed chronologically)_

_On the night I returned, you asked me why_ _I did it. Simply put: I did it for you, John. Moriarty had three snipers aimed at you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and they were going to kill you unless I jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s. If you had known the true nature of my death, you would have been at risk until I dismantled the network._

_I thought about you often when I was away. Especially in the bleaker moments (of which there were many), I imagined you were there with me._

_I didn’t want you to get married. I’m not sure that I knew exactly why until the day of the ceremony, but I realized then that I was jealous of her._

_I never wanted you to go back to Mary that Christmas, but I thought that was the life you wanted. I also could not see any other possible option in which you would be safe._

_On the tarmac, I never intended to say “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.” I wanted to say “I love you,” but upon recalculation, felt that would be cruel to say as I departed indefinitely._

_I had intended to overdose on that plane before I was called back. Mycroft had assured me that the mission would prove fatal to me in six months, so I decided not to prolong the inevitable._

_I knew that Mary faked her death. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I helped her to coordinate this. She expressed that she would rather you not know the truth, as she believed you may go looking for her. I confess that I agreed, and did not want to put you in danger. Of course, now I see the hurt that I have caused you with this omission, and I must live with the fact that there is nothing I can do to bring Watson back into our lives._

_Our years with Watson brought so much joy to my life. I never thought I would come close to being a parent, but I found it to be deeply fulfilling._

_On the night last January, you said it’s fine that I don’t “do all that,” implying sex. This is not true. While, at the time, I did not think it would be wise for us to add that element to our relationship due to my knowledge of Mary being alive, I do, in fact, “do all that.” And I very much want you, John. If sex is not something you are interested in with me, I understand completely. I will be grateful to return to a semblance of what we had before. But know that if you would like physical intimacy, the desire is reciprocated._

_I missed you more than I can say this year._

_Moving forward, I vow to trust you with my thoughts, knowledge, and feelings, John. I hope this list can provide some insight into how you would like to proceed with our relationship._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

John must read the letter twelve times over. It’s the most vulnerable Sherlock has ever been with him; It’s the most vulnerable Sherlock has ever been, full stop. John is moved. And some of the items on that list...jesus. The _snipers_! His memories are rewritten as he reads this letter, shaping them around Sherlock’s unsaid words. The wedding. The tarmac. Nights sharing the bed with Sherlock. John feels a surge of affection for Sherlock even as he feels a surge of guilt for his own ignorance, all this time. 

After the final twelfth read, he puts the letter down, and has a sudden need to see him. To see the truth of the list confirmed in Sherlock’s eyes. He considers the virus-related risk, and decides that Sherlock will have already been infected by the bed rolling yesterday, if John is, in fact, positive. As long as they don’t interact with anyone else, he decides, it’s acceptable. He can’t go another six days without seeing Sherlock (actually ten, including Sherlock’s own quarantine). Not after an entire year.

He opens his door, checking to see if anyone is lurking about in the hallway, but the coast is clear. He tiptoes to Sherlock’s door, letter in hand, and knocks firmly. He hears rustling inside, and then quick footsteps. The door opens, revealing a frazzled Sherlock in pajamas and a dressing gown, hair unkempt, eyes red. 

Sherlock lets John inside, and the smell of skunk wafts toward him. “Jesus, Sherlock, it smells like a Willie Nelson concert in here.” 

The reference goes unrecognized. Sherlock is leaning his back against the door, looking awkward and impossibly small. He must be thinking of the hasty way John dismissed him yesterday, and treads lightly. 

“John,” his tone is purposefully even. “You read it.” Sherlock must have been anxiously waiting for this all day, and John feels another stab of guilt. 

John toes off his shoes, sits on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, and looks down at the letter. “It’s beautiful.” He pats the spot next to him on the bed in an invitation for Sherlock to join him. When he does, John slides an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. His frame is noticeably thinner than John remembers. His body is closer to an effigy of the Sherlock he met at Barts ten years ago, now with greying hair, than the Sherlock he knew a year ago. “Have you been eating?” he asks, rubbing his thumb along Sherlock’s side. 

The thin man pointedly looks down at his hands intertwined in his lap, and John risks a glance at the dinner delivery tray, left untouched on the hotel room desk. Sherlock looks caught. “No one around to feed me up,” he says jokingly, but John knows there’s more than a bit of truth in it. 

John’s concern takes on an edge of guilt. “What about Mrs. Hudson? Doesn’t she make you eat?”

“You’re the only one who can _make_ me do anything, John.”

John puffs up a bit, at that. He’s reminded of their first night together at Angelo’s, and thinks it could be an easy segue into what he really wants to talk about- the list. “Isn’t that what _girlfriends_ do? Feed you up?” He pops the p in _up_ , imitating Sherlock’s early arrogance. John leans in, nudging him good-naturedly. 

“John.” Sherlock peels himself from John’s grasp and scoots back on the bed, drawing his legs up into a Buddha sit. John’s fingers immediately miss the feel of his dressing gown on his skin. “If you read the list, you’ll know that I have no desire for a _girlfriend.”_ The _obviously_ is implied. 

A pool of warmth gathers in John’s stomach, and he desperately wants to reach out and pull Sherlock into him. But they need to talk, first. Words unsaid have never done them much good, clearly. “I did read the list. And I- I had no idea, Sherlock. About any of it, really. I feel like we’ve been living in two separate realities.” He sighs, not sure where to begin with...everything. 

He wants to ask _why_ , why did Sherlock keep all this from him. But that’s unfair, now. And he knows why: Sherlock thought this was what was best for John. That at the time, this information would either endanger him or hinder him from having the life Sherlock thought he wanted. 

John has no prepared words, and he says what has been weighing on him most heavily since he opened the letter. “You…you died for me.”

Sherlock swallows. When he speaks, it’s hushed and serious and wracked with emotion. “I would do anything for you, John.” 

John stands, placing the letter on the desk, and turns to face Sherlock. “Why?” he asks, with an edge of incredulity. “Why, when all I’ve ever done is hurt you?”

A flash of pain crosses Sherlock’s face. “That’s not true. Yes, you have hurt me, deeply, in the past. As I you. But you’ve also given me so much.” he pauses. “I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, because there is no time in which the statement will not be true. I love you, and there is nothing I wouldn’t- won’t- do for you, John.” 

The words were written in the letter; they have been written in subtle expressions for years; Sherlock has said them gently to him and to Rosie in their years together, pronounced them, even, at John’s own wedding. But this sentiment hangs weighty between them. These words feel heavier, somehow. More intense. Filled with expectation. 

“God, Sherlock.” John’s chest feels leaden, and he needs to release the weight of his own emotions or he may collapse. “I love you. _Fuck_ , I love you so much.” It feels like saying the words for the first time. 

John comes to sit at the edge of the bed next to Sherlock, who holds out his long fingers in offer. John takes them, pulling himself onto Sherlock’s lap, straddling him. Sherlock grunts, not expecting the added weight, but his arms tentatively navigate to the curve of John’s back as he gazes up at John in wonder. John wraps his sturdy arms around Sherlock’s bony frame and rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing him in. The burnt, earthy smell of cannabis fills John’s nostrils, followed by the more subtle tones of tea tree oil, musky pajamas, and posh shampoo. While John could do without the potency of the marijuana, he wants to bottle this scent and bathe himself with it. And with the way Sherlock is intimately nosing at his neck, John guesses he feels the same. 

They stay like this for several long, silent minutes, wrapped in the comfort of confession. 

Eventually, Sherlock shifts his hips in a way that suggests his thighs are starting to cramp under the weight of John’s own. He takes the hint, sliding off with a huff and onto the bed, and stretches. Sherlock’s eyes are on him, soft and defenseless. 

“Lie down with me,” John implores. “For old time’s sake.” 

Sherlock smiles shyly, but does as he’s asked. They lie, side by side untouching, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. It’s a bit awkward, lying stiffly in the aftermath of vulnerability, and John won’t stand for that. He reaches for Sherlock’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Sherlock visibly relaxes. 

“I missed you too, you know,” John murmurs. “Going away was supposed to make it easier to leave you, but that was a shite plan. The minute I came back I wanted to see you.” 

Sherlock digests this, still staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I know the feeling.” 

John imagines Sherlock, after he jumped, running away to God knows where, trying to forget about him. “ _I thought about you often when I was away,”_ he had written. They both had spent nights abroad, unbearably lonely and hurt, aching for the other and wishing they weren’t. And suddenly, he knows what Sherlock needs from him. 

“I forgive you, Sherlock. For all of it. For everything you never said,” John says quietly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand in his own.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock finally turns to face him. “I forgive you, too. For everything you don’t forgive yourself for. I just. I need you. I need you in my life.”

John forces the words from his dry mouth, “I need you, too.” Emotion wells up in John’s eyes, tears forming at the edges. Sherlock untangles their fingers and reaches up to wipe the droplets away with his thumb. Then, in a bold move, he brings his thumb to his lips, his tongue darting out to catch the salty liquid. John watches this display, dumbfounded. “Uh.”

Sherlock looks caught. “Not good?” 

“No, it’s…” he considers, “very you. I like it.” More than he cares to admit. 

Sherlock smirks. “Can I...try something else?” 

John nods. He’s more than a little intrigued. 

Sherlock tentatively lifts John’s left hand to his lips, and puts his tongue out, lightly touching the pad of John’s thumb experimentally. The small gesture lights something in John that’s been dwelling in him for years. 

“Number nine on your list,” he says, his thumb resting against Sherlock’s lips so he can feel the quick inhale of breath there. “You...want that. With me.” 

John sees the flash of a sharp remark- _I thought I made that obvious_ , or _Of course, you idiot_ or _We’re grown men, you can say_ sex _-_ but it passes, and Sherlock shifts his face slightly so that John’s hand is caressing his cheek. “Do _you_?” he asks, meeting John’s eyes. Sherlock knows of John’s physical attraction, but John can read the underlying questions there: After all this time? Even though we’ve just reunited? Even when there’s still so much to sort out? 

They should wait until they’re out of quarantine, until they’re really, properly solid again, he _knows_ they should, but with written confirmation that Sherlock wants him, has wanted him, it’s impossible to deny. 

“God, yes,” he breathes, pulling Sherlock’s face to his and kissing him at last. Sherlock crashes against him with a satisfied exhalation. 

They fumble for a few moments, but soon Sherlock is leaning over him, fervently licking into John’s mouth, and John’s encouraging him with a squeeze of his hips. Sherlock’s lips are full and needy under John’s own, and when they part, his tongue is barely able to keep up with Sherlock’s explorations. Sherlock’s hands scramble at John’s chest, itching for the buttons eagerly, but John stops him, breaking apart for air. When John looks up at him, he sees a frazzled expression bordering on unhinged, Sherlock’s eyes wide and dark, the area around his mouth reddened by John’s stubble. 

“Shh, love, slow down. It’s okay. We have time,” John soothes, rubbing softly at Sherlock’s forearm. His eyes flutter and focus, losing the sharp edge that was frankly, a bit frightening. “We have nothing but time.” 

Sherlock’s breath is hot against John’s nose. “Oh. Yes, of course.” He’s embarrassed. John won’t have it. He gently pushes on Sherlock’s waist, maneuvering him so he’s lying flat on the bed. John hovers over him, their legs slotted together. 

He smiles at him softly. “God knows I’m over the bloody moon you’re eager, but I’ve been waiting a decade for this, and I _will_ take the time to do this right.” John leans down for a languid kiss, only parting his lips once he’s drunk in Sherlock’s taste. “Relax,” he soothes, rubbing circles at Sherlock’s navel where his jumper has risen up. “Can you do that for me?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but there’s no sting to it. “Yes, _Daddy_ ,” he means it to be petulant, but his eyes widen when he realizes the connotation. “I only meant…” 

John cuts him off with a kiss. “No, I...like it.” 

Sherlock’s expression turns devilish. “Interesting.” He cocks an eyebrow. He’s probably filing this away in his “John & Sex” file in his mind palace somewhere. John’s cock twitches with interest, and he gets to work wiping the smirk off of Sherlock’s face with his lips. 

Kissing Sherlock feels illegally good. He should know; he’s kissed the man hundreds of times, but never like this. God, never like this. All those chaste kisses, ones that he clung to while he was away this year, are whispers now in the wake of this passionate snogging, a precursor rather than a goodnight. Their mouths move against each other, slow and deliciously anticipatory. John’s crotch is begging for friction, and he starts thrusting shallowly against Sherlock, encouraged by his quickening breaths. 

“John,” Sherlock breathes, his hands exploring John’s chest and stomach intently over his shirt. “Take this off.” 

John leans back, groaning at the loss of sensation of the press of Sherlock’s hips against his. He begins fastidiously unbuttoning his shirt, and Sherlock watches, rapt. “Your hands are perfect,” he says, reading the lines across John’s strong, compact hands, his knuckles, and fingers. John pauses mid-button. “I confess I’ve thought about them often in your absence.”

“Yeah?” John smirks. “How do you think about them?” He undoes one button. “Like when I use them to make tea?” he says cheekily as he undoes the next. “To type?” And the next. “To clean up after your experiments?” And the last. 

He’s joking, but Sherlock is dead serious. “All of that, yes.” John can’t help but melt at Sherlock’s sincerity. “But also,” he takes John’s left hand in his, examining it, “texting. Shaving. Filling in the crossword. Doing medical examinations.” Each example sends a new spark of arousal through him. “Pointing a gun at someone who wants to hurt me. Taking off your clothing,” he nods toward John’s shirt and lets go of John’s hand. John takes the hint, shrugging out of the offending garment as Sherlock continues, his voice growing huskier. “Showering. Running your hands through my hair,” he runs his appraising, non-judgmental gaze over John’s scar. “Masturbating. Touching my knee. Touching me...other places.”

“ _Fuck,_ me, too,” John grunts, leaning forward to catch Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth. They’re going at it, now, desperately breathing in each other’s air, hands clutching where they can reach. John grasps at the hem of Sherlock’s jumper, asking silently to take it off. Sherlock hesitates, but lifts his arms and sits up against the pillows, and John pulls the jumper over his head. 

John can’t stop the surprised exhale that forces itself from his mouth. Sherlock is thin. The thick cable knit of the jumper cushioned Sherlock’s stomach, but without it, he is bordering on unhealthy. His skin is exceedingly pale, his muscle mass, which had built up quite a bit in the last few years before John left, has noticeably deteriorated a bit. The scar in the center of his chest seems to mock John, and Sherlock moves his arms to try to cover his body, exposed. 

“Sherlock,” he says as tenderly as possible, “Your body is beautiful, and you need to nourish it.” He glances to the untouched fish and chips on the desk. “When was the last time you ate?” 

Sherlock thinks for three seconds too long. “A few days ago.” 

John sighs. “As much as I want to continue this,” he gestures between the two of them, “I think you should try to eat something first.” 

Sherlock shrinks, but he doesn’t try to fight John on it, which is slightly worrying if even Sherlock knows his body is in need of sustenance.

John gets his erection under control and boils water for tea in the electric kettle. He watches Sherlock as he sits, hunched over the desk, eating the cold fish and chips at John’s request. He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders as he hands him a cup of tea. The remarkable difference in Sherlock’s physical form in just a year nags at him, and he hates that he has to ask, but, “The drugs.” 

Sherlock stiffens slightly. 

“You said you gave them up. Was that true?” 

Sherlock pushes the rest of a half-eaten chip into his mouth and swallows before looking up at him. “Yes.” 

John scans his face and decides he has to trust him. “But you didn’t mean the last time you gave them up. Before Rosie and I moved in, after Culverton,” he winces as he says it, the name tasting sour on his tongue. But it’s not a question; the signs of usage in the last year are plain to John’s discerning eye. 

“No.”

“When did you start using again?”

“Last January.” _After you left._ It’s the answer John expected, but it still stings. The guilt burns under his skin. 

“Until?”

“June. Mycroft sent me to a rehab facility. Quite forcibly, I’m afraid.” 

He cringes, imagining how that must’ve gone. He’s angry, of course- he’s been through this with Sherlock before. But he tamps it down as best he can, trying to understand. John himself had picked up and left the country, a coping mechanism he’d used once before, with the army. Drugs have been Sherlock’s way of coping in the past, as unhealthy as it is. And this time, Sherlock had lost life as he had known it for three years: John and Sherlock, in a relationship (a sexless one, but certainly a relationship, John knows now), raising Rosie together. 

They had both been heartbroken for each other, grieving for Rosie. And they both resorted to their old ways of coping.

“Good on Mycroft,” John says, going for lightness and failing. 

Sherlock scowls. “Who are you and what have you done with John Watson?” 

“Oh, shut up.” As Sherlock continues to eat, John rubs his back. John’s grateful for the lack of a shirt, able to feel the smoothness of Sherlock’s marble skin beneath his fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you with no other way to deal.” 

Sherlock chews thoughtfully, looking at first like he might dismiss John’s apology, but thinks better of it. Swallowing, he says, “Thank you, John. I accept your apology.” 

“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” 

Sherlock Holmes just rolls his eyes. 

Standing behind Sherlock at the desk, John lets his eyes wander, and notices a couple of hand-rolled joints in the hotel-provided cup. “Sherlock, I have to ask…”

“The cannabis.” 

The word sounds funny coming from Sherlock. “Uh, yeah.” 

Sherlock leans back in the uncomfortable wooden chair (John has the same one in his own room), stretching. “Slows my brain down. Alleviates boredom. Relaxes me. Helps me sleep. Not as deadly a habit as smoking cigarettes.” 

John bites his lip. He doesn’t like the idea of Sherlock becoming reliant on another drug. 

“And if you absolutely hate it, John, I would throw it all away right now and never touch the stuff again. It’s merely recreational.” The assurance helps, and John leans down to press a kiss to his messy curls. 

“I trust you.” And John does, now. The letter helped. 

He leaves Sherlock to eat in silence, going to the bed to scroll on Twitter. Ten minutes later, Sherlock has devoured the entire mediocre meal. John is proud. “I’ll reward you for that later,” he says suggestively, cocking an eyebrow. 

“ _Later_? I rather thought the whole point of this was instant gratification.” Sherlock looks genuinely put out. 

John chuckles. In this moment, Sherlock is ten years younger, in a strop over John buying the wrong brand of milk at Tesco’s. The nostalgia hits him squarely in his chest when John realizes he can’t reset the clock, but he’s being given the chance now to make the rest of his years count. “Then get the hell over here, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock jumps on the bed entirely too gracefully, climbing over John and snatching his mobile from his hands, throwing it onto the floor, and slots his lips between John’s. “Oi!” John scolds, and Sherlock silences him with peppery kisses that quickly turn to deeper, slower ones. He never imagined Sherlock would be this eager, but he should have guessed; Sherlock always commits fully to everything he does. Sherlock settles himself in John’s lap, absently grinding into him as John turns his attention to Sherlock’s neck and digs his fingers into the skin at Sherlock’s hips. When John nips at a particularly sensitive spot at his clavicle, Sherlock moans appreciatively, sending electricity to John’s groin and lighting up more nerve endings. He grips Sherlock harder. Sherlock starts grinding more intently and the pressure is divine. 

“How did we never get this far before?” John asks breathily, barely able to believe that after years of chastity, Sherlock also had the urge to take things further. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock dismisses, emphasizing it with a particularly hard thrust. “We’re doing this now.” 

“Of course we’re doing this now, when it’s illicit and dangerous to be in contact with one another,” John laughs. “It _would_ take a pandemic for us to finally do this.” 

“Well, I’m glad I’ve got my doctor on hand,” Sherlock says into John’s ear, licking his way around the lobe. 

John remembers Sherlock’s words in the list: _I very much want you, John_ , and the memory makes this even more intense. “ _Fuck_ , Sherlock, I want you,” John gasps against Sherlock’s shoulder. He nips his way to Sherlock’s peaked nipple, bringing his hand up to rub at the other. 

“John.” Sherlock runs fingers through John’s hair encouragingly and arches into John’s tongue. John revels in the novel sensation of Sherlock’s body pressing into him from his lap, but John wants more that he can’t get from this angle. Moving his hand away from Sherlock’s chest, he trails his fingers along Sherlock’s thigh and knee, stopping there to give a gentle nudge. 

“Want you on your back,” John rumbles, and Sherlock complies before John even gets all the words out. He’s beautiful like this, half-nude, wanting, curls splayed on the pillow, joggers not doing much to conceal the tempting erection at his groin. John leans over him, twining their legs together, and kisses him deeply to try to convey all that his words so often fail to do. 

Sherlock pulls John’s hip so he’s directly rubbing into his erection as a not-so-subtle hint. Then he goes for a more direct approach. “Touch me, John,” Sherlock purrs, chest and cheeks flushed. 

“Where?” John asks cheekily, and Sherlock gives him a dramatic sigh. 

“For god’s sake,” he mutters as he reaches down to palm John’s achingly hard cock directly over his jeans. It takes John by surprise, and he has to brace himself not to collapse entirely onto Sherlock. 

“ _Oh_ that’s good, yeah.” More than good. It’s years of aching want manifesting in firecracker nerve endings. Sherlock’s long, steady fingers are grasping at his cock, and he’s never been more turned on in his whole bloody life. 

“You...I want…” It’s frustratingly difficult to concentrate, but Sherlock asked John to touch him, and his fingers are shaking with the need to oblige. Sherlock tips his hips up to help John pull his pants and joggers off.

And suddenly, Sherlock is lying completely naked in front of him. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Sherlock, I swear.” 

Sherlock’s answering blush reaches his chest. “Now you.” He surges forward, deftly undoing John’s button and zip. He smiles at John as if he’s just had a devilish epiphany, and flips John onto his back on top of the fluffy hotel pillows, climbs over him, and pulls his jeans and pants down in one smooth motion. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, I’m not gonna be able to keep up with your acrobatics. I’m practically an old man now.”

“You’re not even fifty…” Sherlock starts, but trails off, scanning John’s body with the same intensity as when he looks into a microscope, or surveys a crime scene. His eyes darken over John’s erection, and the knowledge that Sherlock is turned on by his body makes him ridiculously proud. 

Sherlock bends down to run his tongue experimentally along John’s erection, from base to tip, and John stops breathing. The wetness of Sherlock’s saliva hugging the ridges of his cock feels so incomprehensibly good. “Oh _fuck_.” 

Sherlock looks up at him, his tongue still lingering on the head of his cock, teasing him. “I always wondered what you’d taste like.” 

“And was your hypothesis correct?” 

Sherlock smiles, and it reaches his eyes, turning them to crinkles. “I don’t know, more testing is required,” he licks John’s cock again, slowly this time, his eyes not leaving John’s. John slams his head back into the pillow when Sherlock reaches the tip and takes the head of his cock into his mouth. 

_“Fuck_ ing hell!”

Sherlock chuckles, the rumblings of it vibrating through the entire lower half of John’s body. The pleasure of it makes John arch off the bed, thrusting his cock deep into Sherlock’s mouth, and he gags. 

The choking noise catapults him into reality. “Shit! Sorry, sorry Sherlock. Your mouth just feels bloody amazing.”

Sherlock wipes moisture from his lips with his long index finger. “No, no, it’s...fine. Really, John. Seeing you respond like this, it’s indescribable.” 

Emotion swirls with arousal in his chest. “Come up here.” Sherlock makes his way up John’s body with his mouth and hands, until they’re kissing again, deep and intense, rocking against each other. John wants to bathe in the wet heat of their cocks sliding against each other. 

“I love you, fuck, I love you. I love you, Sherlock,” now that he’s said it, John can’t stop confessing. The words tumble out of his mouth as an ostinato, his hands rubbing Sherlock’s back, neck, and arse rhythmically as they thrust together. 

“Yes, John, I want, can you, will you,” Sherlock pants, his complete inability to finish a sentence fueling John’s ego. 

“Anything you want, love,” he says, and Sherlock moans at the endearment. It’s rather loud, and John somehow has the presence of mind to think about their current situation. “Shh, love, I want nothing more than to hear you like this, but we’re going to get in so much trouble if anyone finds out I’ve snuck out of my government quarantine room to shag.” 

He expects Sherlock to scoff, but he doesn’t. He smiles deviously. “You do love a bit of danger, John Watson.” He gives John’s cock a tug as he says it and John gasps, just to prove himself right, the bastard. 

At that, John flips them over, grabs Sherlock’s hands, and puts them over his head. Sherlock swallows even as his pupils grow impossibly wider. “God help me, I do love a bit of danger. And I love you,” he mouths into Sherlock’s outstretched neck. “I love everything you’ve done for me. I love your mind. I love your body. And I love your cock.” Still holding onto Sherlock’s wrists with his right hand, John uses his left to take Sherlock’s leaking length into his palm and stroke him. Sherlock lets out a desperate exhale, eyes closing as he pushes his hips up into the tight circle of John’s fist. His breath starts coming in hot pants in time with John’s strokes, and John’s getting breathless, himself. “You’re gorgeous, Sherlock, that’s right, you like fucking my hand like this? Tell me if you like it.” 

Sherlock nods, lost in the throes of pleasure. 

“ _Tell_. Me,” John demands against Sherlock’s shoulder, speeding up his strokes. 

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth, unable to form the words. 

“Tell me, and I’ll make you come,” John growls, _needing_ this from Sherlock. 

Sherlock swallows. “Ilikeitjohn,” he affirms, his voice growing louder and higher and more desperate, “ _fuck_ , John, I like, I need, I’m going to-” 

John closes his hand tightly around Sherlock’s cock, and he can feel it as Sherlock reaches the brink of orgasm. “Oh, you’re so beautiful, love, that’s right, come for me, come for me, _please_ , Sherlock,” John mutters encouragements as Sherlock gets closer, and closer, and- 

“ _Oh,_ John,” Sherlock breathes as he comes, hot, white streaks coating John’s hand and chest, John’s name worship coming from Sherlock’s lips. 

John releases Sherlock’s hands, breathing heavily and reeling from the intimacy in seeing Sherlock come saying John’s name. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s back, holding him close, gently pressing his lips to John’s cheek. 

“You are a marvel, John Watson.” Sherlock’s sweet, sated, reverential tone makes John melt. “And now, I believe, I get the privilege of returning the favor.” 

John swallows, his cock hard between their stomachs. “Only if you-” 

“John, I _want_. In every sense of the word. Now please let me touch your cock.” 

Well, he can’t argue with that, can he.

John rolls onto his back next to Sherlock, who runs his hand down John’s chest through his own semen, coating his large hand before wrapping it around John’s thick cock and pulling. 

“ _Fuck_ that feels good,” John gives into the pure pleasure of Sherlock’s fingers around him. “I’ve imagined my hand was yours, so many times,” he says, his filters stripped away by sensation. “But that was never as good as this.” 

Sherlock’s voice is deep and rumbling in John’s ear. “Me, too, John. Just this morning, I was imagining you fucking me, and I came so hard I’m surprised you didn’t hear me down the hall.” 

_Jesus._ Sherlock speeds up his strokes, and John closes his eyes, imagining he’s thrusting into the man beside him. “God, you’d want that?” John pants, his arousal peaking at the very idea of fucking Sherlock. 

“I want every part of you, John. I want you to come inside me, to fill me up, I want to be absolutely consumed by you,” Sherlock keeps whispering in John’s ear, and the words are going straight to his leaking cock. 

“Fuck, yes, Sherlock I want to come for you-” Sherlock twists his hand over the head of his cock, and suddenly John’s coming, shouting _I love you I love you I love you,_ not caring who can hear,

for all the times it went unsaid. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this when I was actually in a government quarantine facility, and now I'm out in the real world! There will be one more chapter coming. Thanks for reading!


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